wrapped in red
by ulstergirl
Summary: Written for Yuletide 2013. Modern AU: CIA operative Nancy Drew walks into a bar thinking this mission will be easy. It isn't.


**This story contains some spy-related action/content, but nothing too intense.**

* * *

Nancy walks into the bar that December night on Adam's arm, her black stockings whispering against each other, blue eyes alert. She already knows Adam doesn't like the plan, but he'll go along with it; it will only take a few minutes, anyway, and then he can head out. If everything goes the way she wants.

They've waited until the bar is very busy, until no tables are available and the entire place is like a wall of buzzed conversation. Nancy looks down at her dress; she had to pick her outfit carefully for this last-minute job. She wears a halter-necked red satin party dress with a black sequined pashmina scarf over her shoulders, and she lets it drop to reveal creamy smooth shoulders as soon as they walk in. Diamond earrings gleam from her earlobes, and a small diamond pendant hangs from a delicate silver chain just beneath her collarbones. The entire place is amber and smoky dark wood, and it feels warm and almost desperately happy. A tall tree stands in the corner of the bar, strung with fairy lights, a silver bow on top. A little slice of home for the travelers drinking their troubles away.

The bar is in the mark's hotel, which is handy. Otherwise she has a housekeeping uniform she can put on, if this doesn't work out and she has to try again, but this is good.

Her stilettos sink into the padded carpet as she and Adam shoulder through the crowd, toward the bar. He's seated there, just as she had thought he would be—the mark, with an empty shot glass and a half-empty beer stein in front of him. She squeezes Adam's hand and they begin the script.

"Just one drink. Before the party. I'm gonna need it."

"This place is already insane," Adam tells her, gesturing to the people already milling around the bar. "Besides, why do you _always_ have to do this? My mom isn't so bad."

"Are you serious? If she's even _half_ as bad as last year, it won't be thirty seconds before she's making some comment about short skirts and giving the milk away for free."

"Well, sweetheart, as much as I like that dress on you, if you were so worried about it...?"

Nancy raises her eyebrows as high as she can, snatching her arm away from him. "Oh, so I guess I should've dressed like your _sister_, huh? Big lumpy cat sweater and acid-wash jeans?"

"Leave Pam out of this."

"i can't win with you!"

Nancy keeps a sharp eye on the bar area, and when the stool beside her mark opens up, Nancy immediately puts her sequined clutch down on it. The excitement of working a case on top of her fake fight with Adam have her adrenaline high.

"Look, it's clear you don't want me there. You just want to flirt with your old girlfriend. So why don't you go ahead?"

"Baby, don't be like that. She's just a really good friend of the family, okay?"

"Who your family only knows because you guys dated for all of high school. And you _really_ think there's nothing wrong with hanging out with her?"

"There's nothing going on. You _know_ that."

Nancy brushes "accidentally" against the mark's arm, and he glances up at her; his face is on level with her breasts, just as she wants. "Please, honey, can't we just go _out_ tonight? Please?"

"I've had _enough_, all right?" Adam shoots back, his jaw set. His eyes are sparkling, though. He's enjoying this as much as she is. "We always do what you want. Always. You won't even lay off for one night. So just do what you want, all right?"

"Stop trying to guilt-trip me," she replies, crossing her arms.

"It's not a guilt trip. I'm just so sick of this. My mom's a really great person. You just won't give her a chance."

"To belittle and make snide comments about me? No, I won't."

"Fine. I guess that's it, then."

"I guess so."

Once Adam has stalked out of the bar, leaving Nancy there, she flops down onto the barstool with a long sigh. The bartender is swamped, and Nancy makes a show of holding her hands to her face, closing her eyes and concentrating on making tears well up. She's rewarded when a pair of them slip down her cheeks as she glances back up.

The bartender gives her a small smile. "What'll you have?"

"Rum and Coke," she says. "Diet Coke."

He nods and pulls out a fresh glass, and the dark-haired man beside her, her mark, looks over. "Hey, you okay?"

Nancy sniffles. "Sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean—that was really awful, wasn't it."

The dark-haired man shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and gives her a small smile too. "Look, I'll get your drink. You need it."

"Yeah. I really do." She sniffles again, then offers her hand. "Laura."

He shakes her offered hand. "Ned."

* * *

Nancy takes it slow, because she has one shot at this and he'll be gone in the morning. He's a security consultant, and he has a password, one she needs to finish her mission. Spooking him will ruin her chances of completing that mission successfully.

So she pays close attention to him, but she's not hanging on his every word, because that would make her suspicious if their positions were reversed. At the appointed time, Adam calls her so they can go through that script, so it won't look like it was staged. He apologizes, but she ends the conversation angry again, turning her phone off and shoving it back into her clutch with a huffed sigh.

It's like walking a tightrope above razor blades, and under Nancy's skin she can feel the energy sizzling. It doesn't hurt at all that Ned Nickerson is a damned attractive man. His eyes are dark and long-lashed; he has a classic square jaw and a pair of wire rims that he keeps pushing up his nose. With the first few buttons of his shirt unloosed, his tie down, his shirtsleeves rolled up—God. It'll almost hurt to slip him the mickey and go through his jacket and briefcase and the rest of his room.

Nancy pays for all her drinks after the first, joking that one drink is free; the rest imply something else. She catches his gaze on her a lot. She didn't dress in an intentionally provocative way, but she isn't buttoned up as a nun, either. She's playing the part of a sweet girl who wants to have a good night, and who's just been ditched by her boyfriend.

After an hour of steadily escalating flirtation, Nancy sighs and reaches for her pashmina, gesturing to the bartender for her bill. Ned shakes his head. "You can't be leaving yet."

She gives him a sad smile. "I have a bottle back home that's a lot cheaper than these eight-dollar rum-and-Cokes," she stage-whispers. "And if I drink until I pass out, maybe I won't cry myself to sleep."

"Over that guy?" Ned shrugs. "It'll get better. Or if it doesn't, I'm sure you'll have a hundred guys banging on your door in a week."

She shakes her head, letting her hair fall down into her face, playing at being shy. "Assholes, maybe," she says. "Not decent guys. Not guys—like you."

Ned ducks his head over his own drink, then. "You're a beautiful woman," he says. "Don't let one guy get you down."

"I'll try not to." She pays the bar bill in cash, telling the bartender he can keep the change, then turns to Ned and pats his shoulder, her hand lingering a little bit longer than it should. "Have a good night, okay?"

It only takes a few seconds for her to work up another tear, and she makes sure that it tracks down her cheek before she turns away from Ned. She hears him take a deep breath.

"Hey. Laura?"

Nancy's heart is beating faster, and she pretends she doesn't hear him, her head bent over her purse as she pretends to look for something. She hides her grin. She has him.

She feels his warm palm cup her elbow. "Laura. Wait."

She glances up at him, her eyes wide.

"I just... I don't want you to go home like this."

She shakes her head. "I'll be okay. Somehow."

He takes her arm, walking out into the lobby of the hotel. The massive tree in the center of the polished marble floor has to be fifteen feet tall, immaculately decked. She expects him to lead her toward the elevators, but instead he goes to the front desk. Nancy hides her surprise.

"I need a room for the night," Ned tells the clerk, without a hint of a blush. "Do you have anything available?"

Nancy opens and closes her mouth once, her mind racing. "You're staying at another hotel?" she asks, trying to keep herself from sounding too interested. He's already told her that he's in from out of town.

"At this one," he tells her. "But I have a roommate, and I just... didn't want us to be interrupted."

A roommate. Nancy feels a wave of cold drift down from her neck. This is unexpected, but not insurmountable—but she didn't have any intel about a roommate. "But maybe he's not here," she points out. "I just—I don't want you to have to buy another night..." She takes a deep breath. "I don't want to be any trouble, really."

He's on the hook, and she wants him to stay there. Besides, maybe he still has the code on him—and she can lift his keycard after she knocks him out, if she has to.

"It's no trouble," he assures her. "The company's paying for the room, anyway. I mean... are you having second thoughts?"

God, his eyes are gorgeous. Nancy sinks her teeth into her plush lower lip, pretending to consider. "I don't know," she murmurs. "I guess I just really don't want to be alone tonight." She looks down, then back up, gazing at him through her lashes. "I shouldn't say that, should I."

A very small smile turns up his lips. "Exactly," he says, turning back to the desk. "Neither one of us wants to be alone tonight."

He takes his glasses off once they're in the elevator, heading up to the room he's just bought for the night, and his gaze on her is so intense it's smoldering. For the first time in the entire night, the spike in her temperature isn't even partially feigned. "I don't know about you, but I think one more drink is a good idea," he told her. "Just one. Sound good?"

That fits perfectly in with her plans. "Well, my buzz is starting to wear off," she says.

She's holding two bottles of soda when Ned keys into the hotel room a few minutes later, and the lights are still off when they walk in and he takes them out of her hands—and then grasps both her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her heart's in her throat when he steps close to her, his body pinning hers against the back of the door. She just needs to talk him into taking a drink before they go to bed—they'll never make it there, but he doesn't know that—and she knows she can do that, that this won't end badly. It won't.

His voice is low in the darkness. "Who sent you?"

Maybe it will.

* * *

She lets out her breath in a sigh. "What are you talking about?" The panic in her voice sounds far too real, and she tries to squirm away from him. His grip's like iron, and to break it she'll have to give herself away.

She can't help wondering how she already has. She was so careful.

"The scout," he says, his voice still that low growl. "I recognized him. You were good. Who sent you?"

Her cover's blown, so there's no point in trying to play it off now. At least she has stilettos; she's had to make do with less before.

She draws in a quiet breath and then lashes out, snapping her head forward to catch him off-guard. He has her pinned firmly; she uses the leverage to draw herself up off the floor and drive her heels in toward him, toward his solar plexus or groin. She has a very small disguised gun in her purse, but she's not sure if she'll be able to get to it and pin him down easily.

Ned steps between her legs, pinning her thighs open and keeping her from maneuvering her knee between them, and the adrenaline has made her so strong, too strong. She drops all her weight, flexing her fingers so her nails can be used as claws, and thrashes. She needs space. She needs leverage.

He pulls her wrists together and drags her over toward the bed; Nancy breaks free and can't help releasing a soft triumphant cry as she moves into a fighting stance. She knows the general layout of the room, but fighting blind isn't easy.

He's near the light. She hears it snap on and blinks to keep from being blinded, but when she opens her eyes again, the room is still dark and he's moving toward her—

He grabs her and she grips anywhere she can, his hair, his collar, his ears, anywhere. He gasps when she catches him, when she draws blood; immediately she takes advantage of the opening and lunges toward her purse, where she remembers it being.

Ned reaches it first. She hears him fling it across the room; it smacks against the wall, bounces on the floor.

"Tell them you failed," he pants. "Okay? I'll let you go. Just tell them to give up."

Nancy shakes her head, knowing he can't see her. "Not an option," she says.

He makes a soft sound. "I like your actual voice better," he says. "And that seduction you were trying to run? If I hadn't known..." He almost sounds wistful.

"I thought you were a consultant." She almost whispers it. It's embarrassing to admit.

"I am," he tells her. "But I had another life before this one. Who sent you?"

"The good guys," she says.

He chuckles. "Yeah. Heard that before. The scout, though... you CIA?"

Her heart clenches. "I'm not leaving without the code."

"Yeah you are. CIA... hmm. They didn't tell you why they wanted it, I'm sure."

"It doesn't matter why."

He flips the light on. Nancy blinks again, still wary. He has a gun out, trained on her. Trained on her heart.

She swallows.

"True. It doesn't matter why. It's not upstairs; it's not on me. Strip-search me if you want." He's not smirking, not even slightly, but she flushes at his tone anyway. "You aren't getting it. Now, if you want another drink, we can do that. You're incredibly gorgeous, by the way. And we're on the same side, in the long run. But if that code's broken, it won't be my fault."

She sighs, her gaze still on the gun. "Fine," she says. "I guess I'll go."

"Don't want a drink? A real one, this time?" He raises his eyebrows. "I saw what you were doing."

She did take a sip out of each drink, to make sure the rum was on her breath. The rest was watered down, dumped into her chaser. She quirks an eyebrow at him, too. "Next time, Nickerson."

"I didn't catch your name," he says, as she crosses the room to pick up her purse. Every fiber of her being is screaming that she should pull out the small disguised gun, try her luck. But his gun hand is steady.

"Laura," she replies, a sardonic smirk on her face.

"Until next time, Laura."

She should feel disappointed when she leaves his room, and she does. This setback means more hours of work—and worse, now they'll be aware that someone's after the information.

Still. She chuckles to herself in the elevator, smoothing her mussed hair. _Next time._

* * *

Eight months later. Paris in early Autumn and seven hours until her flight; her mission is finished and she's ready to go home. Her father's birthday is this weekend, and she promised him she will be there. She still feels terrible about missing it the year before.

She ducks into Jacenko, but doesn't find anything she thinks her father would like; she picks up a gorgeous scarf that Bess will adore, though. Then she heads to French Trotters via the Metro and finds an incredibly handsome sweater and a pair of handmade shoes that will look amazing on him. Her father often jokes that her choice to join CIA made him the intercontinental clotheshorse he is today.

She's hungry, and when she does a quick search on her phone, it seems that the unassuming Downtown Café just across the street is a good choice. She can hear music, the rush of voices; she unzips her brown leather jacket as soon as the warmth inside hits her, and it's loud and crowded and the energy is good. And it's been a while since she's had any West African cuisine.

The bartender has just placed a bottle of a local beer in front of her when someone sits down on the stool beside hers. When she walked in, she selected a seat with a good vantage point of the door, and he came in behind a large group; he didn't stay with them, though.

She glances up, her stomach tensing as she automatically reaches behind her for the gun at the small of her back.

"_Bonjour_, Laura," Ned says with a disarming smile, putting a quiet emphasis on her alias. His wire-rimmed glasses are back on, but he's dressed casually too, in jeans and a leather jacket, a heather-grey shirt beneath. "Fancy meeting you here."

Nancy lets out her breath in a long sigh. "Ned," she says softly. "Former Secret Service Special Agent. And one of the only two guys who have ever managed to get the drop on me since I started this job."

"Nancy Drew," he replies quietly. "Current CIA operative. Who is _not_ currently investigating my assignment. No party dress tonight?"

It's a relief to drop the seduction act. She felt like a fool when she did the background checks her assignment's haste had prevented her from doing before the fact, when it would have done any good. She wasn't ready for him then. She's ready for him now. But, just as he told her at their first meeting, ostensibly, they're on the same side.

They are tonight, anyway.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "I seem to remember that you owe me a drink."

He chuckles, but he buys her beer anyway, and opts for the same entree she chose. She doesn't let her guard down entirely, but her current assignment is over and she wanted to unwind, to recharge, to relax before she boards the plane and sleeps through the trans-Atlantic flight.

"So," Nancy comments, during her third beer. "I don't know how you did it."

Ned tips back his own beer. "Did what?"

"Two hours after I left your hotel room, the mission was scrubbed."

Ned shrugs. "That's why I was there," he tells her.

"To scrub my mission?"

"To make sure no one _else_ could get in. It was too explosive. Still is." He picks up his fork, drags it through a few shredded strands of meat, puts it back down on his plate. A spotlight in the corner beams down on a petite woman with masses of dark curly hair and mocha skin, her voice rising and falling in the cadence of a language Nancy doesn't know.

"So it was doomed from the start, eh." Nancy looks down at her own mostly-cleaned plate. "And you looked me up?"

"Just to confirm what I thought. Drop-dead gorgeous CIA agent, strawberry blonde and miles of leg and dangerous as hell? I'd heard of you. You still impressed me, though."

"And you caught me off-guard," she admits. "Won't let that happen again."

"I'm sure," he says. "Look... you want to get out of here? Maybe somewhere we can actually hear each other?"

She raises her other eyebrow at him. God, his eyes are so dark, and trained directly on hers. Her heart's in her throat. "If you think I'm going back to a hotel room with you," she tells him, "then you really don't know me at all."

Ned reaches for his wallet. "Now that _definitely_ sounds like a challenge."

She's true to her word. She doesn't go back to his room, not that night, not that he asks. But they go to another bar nearby, killing time until her flight, and she's struck by how strange it is. They don't know each other, not really, but talking to him is like talking to an old friend. An old friend she hasn't seen in a while, a friend who makes her heart rise uncomfortably high whenever their gazes lock, but a friend anyway.

He wishes her a safe flight and she smiles at him before she leaves, wishing that she had touched him somehow, at least once.

But the moment passes and she's left wondering when she will see him again.

* * *

Seven days before Christmas.

He found her email address somehow and they've exchanged a handful of messages. She found his cell phone number but she hasn't called it. She doesn't want to call it. But knowing that it's there, that burns in her.

No one she's dated has understood her work, the way she might be on assignment for weeks or months at a time. Even the ones who swear they're patient never are. Eventually it becomes a question of priority, and the accusation is always the same. She can't value the relationship if she's never _there_.

And she resents it. She likes her life. She enjoys the travel, the excitement, the danger and adrenaline of it all. She wants a relationship with someone who won't make her feel guilty about it. She doesn't know if he's that man. Her track record so far has been abysmal.

But it will continue to be abysmal if she just stops trying.

She pulls up his contact number and taps it before she can talk herself out of it; she listens to the burr of the ring with her heart in her throat.

"Took you longer than I thought it would."

His voice is warm with a hint of laughter in it, and she can't help chuckling. "Oh? To do what?"

"To work up the nerve to call me, gorgeous. Unless you're calling to hire me."

"And what if I were?"

"You couldn't afford me," he says promptly, and that makes her laugh again. "Not in cash, anyway."

Her laughter trails off. "So if I had a small job that would require your being in Illinois in two days?"

"Might be doable," he replies slowly. "Keep going."

"You'd need a tux."

"Damn," he drawls. "And I _just_ sent it to the cleaners, too. Maybe it'll be ready in time. Anything else?"

"How are you at seduction, Mr. Nickerson?"

"Fair," he replies. "Never really got the hang of it."

"So getting a beautiful woman into bed...?"

"Well, when said beautiful woman is willing, it isn't really seduction, is it?" he points out. "Breaking a girl's heart, leaving her behind? Never liked that too much either."

She's quiet for a moment. "So what do you prefer?" she asks softly.

"I prefer... equal footing," he replies. "Eyes wide open, cards all on the table."

"And you've had that?" she asks, a little incredulous. With his background, she can't imagine very many people have been in his inner circle.

"Not very many times," he admits. "But it's worse without it. I prefer someone who knows who I am. No surprises. And you?"

"The—the same," she says. "But that hasn't really worked for me either."

"Isn't that the definition of insanity?"

"Maybe," she allows, closing her eyes. "Maybe it is. I can't stop hoping, though."

"Me either." His voice is low, soft, almost husky. "So, this job..."

"Nothing. I was joking."

"No you weren't," he replies, his voice still low and soft, and her lips part. "I'll be home—in Illinois—to visit my parents for Christmas. Did you want to run into each other again, maybe?"

"River Heights Country Club Christmas dance," she tells him. "I'll make sure you have an invitation, once you stop laughing at the idea."

But he isn't laughing. "Sounds fun," he tells her. "Tails and top hat, maybe a monocle?"

"Yes, exactly," she smiles. "Exactly right. And—thanks."

"I'll see you soon, Drew."

* * *

Her deep-red satin gown is floor-length, this time. It will be strange to see him when she's fully _herself_, not as an agent, and so it's hard for her to choose what she will wear. She packed three dresses before leaving her small, often-vacant Georgetown apartment two days ago, but this is the one she likes the best, even though it's the most formal. So she straightens her hair and puts on her favorite perfume, and as she studies her reflection in the floor-length mirror in her old bedroom at her father's house, she asks herself what she wants, and she doesn't know. Her stomach is fluttering. She feels sixteen and foolish and this would be so, so much easier if she treated him like a mark again.

But she doesn't want to.

Carson Drew's date is his new girlfriend, and Nancy finds that she doesn't mind it so much. When she was a teenager, the fact that her father even dated burrowed under her skin like nothing else could. Now, though, she's gone for weeks and months at a time, and her father's life doesn't stop just because she's gone. That's the hard part. When she dates a man and leaves him back home, his life doesn't stop either, and she's never _enough_.

She catches herself hoping that Ned will understand, but she still can't put words to exactly what she _wants_. Someone who understands her, that feels like a good start.

Thirty minutes after she walks into the country club for the dance, she's still checking the door every time someone else enters, and so she sees him as soon as he walks in. He's wearing the wire rims, but he takes them off when he walks in, already scanning the room for her.

His tuxedo is beautifully made, perfectly tailored, and she doesn't understand how he was ever undercover. The perfect undercover agents are unassuming; they fade into crowds, easily forgotten. With her hair covered up and her face down, Nancy can do that. Ned can't, not with those eyes. Her heart's already in her throat when their gazes lock.

Her father's dancing with her at the time Ned walks in, and he heads over to her. Nancy introduces Ned as a work colleague, and she sees Ned's eyes spark with a touch of humor as he nods. Then he asks for a dance, and the last time they were so close, he had her pinned to the door in his hotel room. A year ago.

She finds herself hoping she won't need to wait another year to feel that again.

"Thanks for the invitation."

"Thank you for accepting it," she tells him. She sees it now, what she was foolish not to see the first night they met. He had been on guard before she and Adam had even walked in, and the lonely guy who was willing to take her up to a hotel room with little urging had been an act. The way he dances is confident, but he still has a sense of humor when they misstep a little.

So he was playing her, and she was playing him, and tonight, for the first time, they're seeing each other as they really are.

"Big plans for the holiday?"

"Plans to eat myself into a coma," he jokes with a grin. "Mom's Christmas dinner is legendary. You?"

"Same. But I guess you know how it is. Anytime I might be called away."

"I remember." His fingers lightly trace against her spine. "You love it, though, don't you."

She takes a breath. There's no judgement in his voice, no hint of bittersweet, and the room spins lazily around them as they twirl. Her armor isn't fully down; this isn't truly who she is either, but it's close. "I do love it," she admits. It's been so long since she's been honest about it with someone she cares about, without temporizing or apologizing. "I love the excitement, traveling—even the danger. I don't like being away from my family and friends as much as I am, but they understand. The ones who have stuck with me, anyway."

He nods, a small smile on his face. "Yeah," he agrees.

After the dance, a light snow is falling. Nancy rebelts her trenchcoat, her fingers already ice-cold before she slips them into her suede gloves. A few flakes catch in Ned's hair and immediately melt. Nancy and her father drove separately, so when he glances over his shoulder at her, she gives him a smile and a little wave. She's not quite ready to give up these last few moments with Ned yet.

"Do you—"

"Do you—want to get a coffee?" Ned says at the same time she starts to speak, and they both break off and smile. "I'd offer to make it for you myself, but I'm staying with my parents."

"And I'm staying with my dad, too. But I'd love to get a coffee."

The coffee shop they finally reach is in Chicago, and it's actually a bar, and the coffee ends up Irish. Their formalwear isn't so unusual, not so close to Christmas, not in a better-class bar, and she's struck by the strange coincidence.

"What?" Ned asks, when she laughs.

"This is how we met," she points out. "The dress, the bar..."

"No staged fight, though, I hope."

"Were we really so obvious?"

Ned shakes his head. "Not—really." She starts to interrupt, but stops herself when he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She's decked men for less, but with him, feeling the warmth of his skin so near her is seductive. "And for the first two seconds, I just pretended it was real... and it was nice."

"Two seconds, huh."

He shrugs. "I can't imagine..." He shakes his head. "You're intriguing, Nancy. And I've always liked a puzzle. I don't think anyone could have managed to seduce me that night, but believe me, you would've come closest."

"But we weren't on an equal playing field," she says, then takes a sip of her drink. "You were tipped off."

"And you knew who I was too, so I'd say we were even."

But she hadn't truly known, not really. She smiles. "I'm a puzzle?"

"You were. Maybe you always will be, a little. But I think I'm starting to understand you."

"Oh?"

He nods. "What would you do, if you went into a different line of work?"

Those dark eyes, when they're settled on her, are enough to bring that nervousness back. Nancy clears her throat, considering. "I sincerely don't know," she tells him. "I love what I do. Even if it wasn't exactly this, something similar, I think, like being a police detective. A Secret Service agent." They both smile at that. "Another job that would let me solve puzzles and put together clues."

"And you're an agent, so you can work with other people, but most of your work is alone."

She nods. "I... well, I guess we've all been burned before, depending on other people. It's easier, when the only person you're letting down is yourself."

"Yeah." When he orders again, he asks for a non-spiked coffee. He drove, after all. Still... she hadn't realized it, but a part of her had wondered if they would reenact that first meeting, ask for an available room, and stumble upstairs, just without guns this time.

But that feels like a waste, for the first time in her experience.

"Mom keeps asking when I'm going to settle down," he tells her. "But I have, as much as I want to. When times are good, I can pick the jobs I want. If I want to be abroad for six months, I can; if I want to be stateside, I can." He shrugs. "It just didn't used to feel quite this lonely."

"So you wouldn't give it up either," Nancy says.

He shakes his head slowly. "Not yet," he says. "I'm sure if I married and had a kid or two, I'd stay around home a lot more... but I still have time."

It's the old lie, in their line of work. Time. The only time they are guaranteed is the moment they are in, right now. The next may never come.

He drives her back to her father's house, the porch light a dim halo through the falling snow. "So, Nancy," he says with a smile, "if you and I are both around before New Year's, want to plan on running into each other again?"

"That'd be nice," she tells him with a smile. "I'd like to. Maybe we can crash a party or something."

Ned nods, and their gazes lock. Nancy's heart has been beating hard all night, every time she looks into his eyes, and slowly she reaches up and cups his cheek.

"Stop me now," she whispers, "if I'm about to do something incredibly stupid."

"If you weren't," he murmurs, just before their lips touch, "I was going to."

* * *

Eighteen months later. Another bar, another mark. This time she's in a small red bikini, a black crochet scarf wrapped around her waist as a cover-up that hides almost nothing. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her hair, sun-bleached, drawn to loose waves by the sea air. The thatched hut of a bar at the edge of the beach has two televisions and smells strongly of rum and coconut tanning oil.

This one is quick. The guy is tall and she sees the rectangle of the keycard in his pocket. She stumbles on her wedge sandals and apologizes profusely when she accidentally falls against him; in the confusion, while his gaze is on her chest, she grabs the keycard and slips it into her cover-up. Ned's just rising from a table when she crosses to it; she gives him a mock pout.

"Sure you don't want to have a drink with me?"

Ned pauses, palming the card she just passed to him. "If you wait _right here_, gorgeous," he says, crooking his finger under her chin, "I'll be back fast as I can."

She counts off the seconds silently, her cell phone against her skin so she can feel it vibrate with a message or call if she receives one. She mentally times him through the walk back to the hotel, activating the loop on the security feed, using the card...

She knows her heart is beating too fast to give her any accurate sense of time, but when he's two minutes late her fingers tremble a little. If he's in trouble and he gives her some sign, she'll be there as fast as she possibly can—and fighting by his side is much more successful than fighting _him_.

He returns five minutes later than her count. His watch is missing. So he planted it, and tonight will go a lot more smoothly.

"I was about to leave," she tells him with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm glad you didn't." He bends to her and gives her a slow, lingering kiss. "Let's go watch the sunset."

On the way out, Ned drops the keycard beneath the vacant stool and Nancy picks it up, handing it to the bartender, commenting that the man she knocked into must have dropped it.

Ned laces his fingers through hers as they walk by the shore. "We're all set."

"And the shift change is in an hour?"

He nods, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. "Whatever could we possibly do in an hour?" he murmurs against her skin.

"Mmm. Well, I do need to change out of this, and into something dark-grey and sexy..."

"And my favorite bulletproof vest usually requires another set of hands," he murmurs with a smile.

They figured it out quickly, the two of them. They wanted to be together, and they wanted the life they loved. And the two weren't mutually exclusive. CIA hadn't let her go easily, but her supervisor had understood.

And she hadn't come to work for Ned as an agent. She had come to work _with_ him, as a partner. Making it official six months earlier, exchanging rings they could only occasionally wear in public, was just icing on the cake.

They stop to watch the sunset, the reflection on the water burnished gold, vivid orange and bright red. She doesn't feel happier now than she did before; the life they share is much like her old one. She still dangles from ziplines and picks locks on file cabinets and desk drawers, still takes her bruises and scrapes and bandages herself up, still feels that same heart-pounding jolt of adrenaline when she's in danger and the same exhilaration when the assignment is wrapped up.

The only real difference is that, when she's keyed up and breathless, unable to stop grinning, he's there to share her victories and her setbacks with her. Ned's is the voice in her earpiece, the hands cupped beneath her heel to boost her over a razor-wire-topped wall, the dark eyes gazing into hers before he nods to tell her the way is clear. And when she's back stateside, they don't share a tiny, stale-smelling apartment in Georgetown, but a loft just outside New York City. He wasn't lying when he said she couldn't afford him.

She had thought he was the easy mark, but she was. All along.

After they find all the security gaps and document them, the guards very nearly catch them, but Nancy manages to pull herself up onto the roof and toss a few pebbles down the other side to distract them from Ned's location. Ten minutes later they're back in their shared hotel room and she's ripping her hood off, tossing out her reddish-gold hair, grinning at him. Her partner, in every way she had never let herself imagine.

"Good?"

"The best," Ned growls, sweeping her up into his arms, and she wraps herself around him. "Now, I think I'm due for a lesson in seduction?"

Nancy pulls back, running a hand through his dark hair, and shakes her head. "No," she tells him. "You're perfectly seductive just as you are, Mr. Nickerson."

He grins, and her heart melts. "And so are you," he murmurs, kissing her neck. "Mrs. Nickerson."


End file.
